The Mourning After

You wake up with dried blood adhering your head to the pillow. The vomit on the bed attacked your nose and your mouth opens as your stomach tried to evict something that is no longer there. A dampness around your groin doesn’t bode well for laundry day.
+++++Carefully you peel the pillow off your head and open your eyes. The floor spins clockwise while the ceiling is going the opposite way.
+++++You can’t remember anything about last night. Or at least nothing after necking absinthe in Shooters. The last time you were that drunk you woke up in a fountain located in the middle of a roundabout.
+++++Feeling your head you find no external injury. The inside is aflame with dehydration which causes spots to appear before your bloodshot eyes, but the outside is unscathed. So where is all the blood from?
+++++Then you see the pair of red stilettos lying tangled up in a white thong. Suddenly you recall the girl from last night, she was tall redheaded and she was wearing the sexiest red dress you’d ever seen. It had shown a hint of cleavage and a slit had kept giving you a flash of stocking top whenever she’d crossed her legs.
+++++You’d chatted and flirted with her. She’d laughed at your jokes, listened to your stories and left her hand on your arm long enough to show her intentions.
Her name was Siobhan or Sinead or something like that. It was Irish and started with an S. That much you could remember.

A lecherous smile crossed your face as you remembered the walk back to your flat. She’d dragged you into an alley and dropped to her knees to give you a taster of what was to come.
+++++You guessed she must be in the bathroom cleaning blood, puke and piss off herself. You’d never live this one down when the lads found out.
+++++So where had the blood come from? A hand rubbed across your face made your nose throb and you felt dried blood caked across your top lip. Thank God for that you thought. You hadn’t wanted it to be her blood.
+++++Getting out of bed you padded across to the window shivering. Had the bloody heating gone again? Drawing back the curtains you could see the smashed window.
+++++‘What the fuck happened last night?’ you asked the empty room.
+++++A glance out of the window showed a police car parked three stories below and two cops walking towards a body in a red dress.

Running downstairs in your boxers with no heed for decency, you sprinted out of the building reaching the body at the same time as the police.
+++++Her dress had ridden up around her waist exposing her crotch. One look at the cock between her legs made you remember everything.

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Graham Smith

Graham Smith

Graham is a hotel manager who lives and works at The Mill Forge near Gretna Green and has just released his first Ebook 11 The Hard Way. He’s only been writing a short time but has been an avid reader for over 30 years and has also been a reviewer for for over 2 years. Has also conducted face to face interviews with the likes of Mark Billingham, Dennis Lehane, David Baldacci, Matt Hilton, Lee Child, Jeffrey Deaver, Peter James and Simon Kernick among many others.

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